Legal mess

Sometime during the night my sweet girls were replaced by highly destructive monsters. Monsters who feed on messes and wanton demolition.

The proof...

While I read a book about Godly parenting{!} during my quiet time, they stole into the bathroom and emptied a bottle of Castile soap into the carpet then colored over it with bathtub crayons.

While I made their breakfast, they shredded the table bouquet.

While I called Tim to talk me off the ledge, they painted Afton in blueberry yogurt and splattered the dog in milk.

All. before. 7:30.

I really wanted to leave them to be raised by wolves Jungle Book style. The outcome couldn't be significantly different.

What do you do when mess monsters invade your home?

Give them a mess to feast upon.

I pinned a recipe for homemade slime months ago, then promptly forgot about it. 5 minutes, glue, liquid laundry starch and food coloring - that's all it takes to pacify mess monsters {recipe here and here}. For an hour and a half, we made pancakes, cupcakes, popsicles, lollipops. The princess crown and earrings caused some issues {slime and rapunzel hair mix entirely too well}. Glorious, contained monster fun with very little momma mess. Followed up by a long overdue midmorning bubble bath {recipe here}.

I don't share this crazy-turned-fun morning to show that at my wit's end I found great wit, that I solved this problem all by myself. SuperMom to the rescue. Far from it.

By 7:30, I was done. Ready to quit. A desperate animal caged in by my obligation. The gift of mommahood felt like a yoke of lead.

If any of you lacks wisdom...

That became our cry around the breakfast table. Momma bowed and prayed. Afton bowed and prayed. PoppaDaddy bowed and prayed from across town.

Prayer answered with divine prompting to make a mess for my monsters. He doesn't only answer with lofty words and high theology. And this was no who fills the storehouses with snow? morning. The Spirit's voice was completely practical. Distract them with what they want to do. Redirect destructive energy into a legal mess.

Thank you Lord for wisdom, both understanding the deep and recalling the practical. You give to each momma as she has need.

When hands bleed

Like most overly pious people, I like to tell myself that I'm not attached to 'stuff.' It feels other-worldly and spiritual to renounce trivial possessions. 

Then my stuff break.

And I shed tears.

Memories of Christmas morning with my Nannie, opening the box I knew was just for me. It was a ritual between us. These carousel horses. Every year, a new horse with a new song.

I climb the stairs with a heavy heart after Gwennan complains that Afton broke her favorite carousel. I know what this means. It's not just her favorite carousel; it's my favorite. The music box memory of Nannie that I wanted to share with my little girls

And there are their hands and feet stained with tiny smears of blood from trying to clean up their own mess. Shards of evidence buried in the carpet. Glitter and broken glass embedded in quilts and stuffed animals. A stack in the hallway where they wanted to hide their shame, remove it from the scene.

My heart breaks, and my eyes leak as I wash skin, checking for slivers. Wash carpet, checking for slivers. Little pieces of their disobedience lying in wait to pain them again.

The end result: pile of broken glass.

Picture of our sin. All sharp edges. Wounding us over and over as we run circles around the mess we made trying to fix it ourselves.

But this mess needs experienced hands. Fingers that know how to pick up the shards. Fingers that will be cut by our sin, cleaning up the remnants of their own broken treasure.

For he was pierced for our transgression...

He was crushed for our sins...

By his wounds we are healed.

Disobedience breaks God's world, God's order, God's heart, God's relationship with his favorite creation.

And cuts our hearts to pieces, slivers of sin piercing deep and leaving rivers of blood. Slivers of our sin lying around waiting to cut us again.

Then he comes, perfect unstained hands picking up all those pieces in his own skin. Wiping clean our bloody stains. Perfectly gentle and patient with those who deserve the blood and pain. He runs his hands over the wake of our disobedience, leaving nail-shaped scars.
Blood and tears. The price of relationship. The cost of sharing.

I could keep memories packed up, out of reach, safe from damaging forces. But they would never share those memories. Never see the memory of Nannie spinning slowly, plinking out a lullaby.

I could keep my heart packed up, out of reach, safe from rebellion and dishonesty. All those child sins that break momma's heart over and over. But they would not see forgiveness and grace, love from their momma.

I could hide my sin, bury it deep in dark shadows, safe from exposure, conviction. But I would never see the bleeding hands of a savior picking up the shards, taking the pain himself.

The break is good. The shatter a glory. To see the beautiful work of the cleaning.

What goes around...

Your morning has taken an interesting turn when you hear yourself saying, "You'll have to wait - I'm washing Preparation H out of Sister's hair."

This is my reward for showering. I didn't hear the baby gate crash, so I didn't realize the girls had escaped. And the baby monitor added to the deception - I kept hearing them playing happily in their room. But it didn't tell me they were decorating the walls with conditioner, Preparation H, and bath crayons. I know. I should have invested in the video monitor.

Here I am, preparing for an awesome school day with fun craft to reinforce numbers and Jan Brett coloring pages, and I keep hearing, "chhhhh. chhhhhh. chhhhh." Hmm, that sounds like water running, but I haven't started laundry yet, right?

Following the noise, I find the girls standing together on the trash can, turning the faucet on and off into an overflowing sink, not unlike Mickey and the brooms. The vanity is empty, except for a few cups of water. Five pitiful half-open sponge animals uncurl on the puddled floor. Little Sis has a glob of greasy white cream in her hair. Both of them are naked and soaked. Sanitary pads and razors are strewn around their bedroom. Two rolls of toilet paper lay on the floor like streamers on a rainy New Years morning. Oh, and did I mention the wall art?

In case you're thinking, "this is the moment where Katie goes ape, and the neighbors call Child Protective Services," I actually didn't. No screaming or crying or pounding the walls or promising ridiculous punishments. Maybe the Spirit gifted me with supernatural self-control. But mostly I was thinking, "oh, this is how Daddy felt."

This is how my daddy felt when he finished mowing the lawn and poked his head in to check on the toddlers he left safely playing in their cribs. Only to find the walls and cribs and dresser and both toddlers painted with vaseline and desitin. Oh, and I gave my Little Sis a cocktail of her prescription ear drops, which led to an ugly stomach pumping incident. I know how he felt. The survey of the mess. The surprise when you find the hidden stash under a pile of bedding. Surreal.

So Mommy, if you ever thought to yourself, "that wouldn't have happened if I'd been home," oh yes, it jolly well might have.

My take away from the morning: showering is overrated.

No really, I did find out that a mixture of conditioner and Preparation H takes crayon right off the wall, no scrubbing necessary. However, removing the conditioner and Preparation H is extremely challenging {the wall still feels a little greasy}. Stick with a magic eraser for crayon wall art.

Hope my ridiculous day brightened yours!

Trial by fire: Childcare

We've  been eating dinner for an hour. Big one just exclaimed, Mommy, I didn't know there were olives in here. Observant she is not.

Hanging out with my beauties. Absorbing the sea turtle movie with large eyes. We're all girls tonight. Time for Momma fun: a trip to the library. The brightest spot in a long, challenging, growing pain day for this momma.

We've entered a new venture - childcare {that sounds like the girls have raised themselves like wolf-children up to this point}. I should say, care of someone else's children. I now have four girls under age three in my care. {I'm sorry. Did you just choke on your coffee as you read that? Me too.} How did this transpire? Who would ever trust me to guard the wellbeing of two more babies? I still shake my head at my optimism, my unfailing belief that I can 'make it work.'

I am three days into babysitting and have almost reconciled myself to never using the toilet again. Without fail, the girls deny needing to use the potty until my hand touches the bathroom door. As soon as I need to relieve myself, the toddler bladder dance starts. I need go potty right now!! Inevitably, I let the toddler jump line so I don't have to clean up an accident. Once one is using the potty, every other baby realizes how badly they need to go, even small one who is wearing a diaper. Now I have a line of hopping children when the first one on the pot says, I need go big poop. Of course you do.

But toddlers in the bathroom are contained under a watchful eye. My larger problems occur when I sneak away to the bathroom. Problems such as dumping a brand new box of formula on the kitchen floor, then throwing it up in the air and grinding it into sweaty tiny toes. An example. {I still cannot comprehend how those three tiny figures, barely 75 lbs. among them, managed to spread that formula as far as they did.}

And what did I do when the formula formed a sole-like crust on my bare feet, and the infant it was supposed to feed started wailing? I sang {my other options: maniacal laughter with the accompanying eye twitch, torrential tears, or cursing that would redden a squid's cheeks}. So I sang. Mostly to interrupt Big One from asking again, Mommy, what did you do to Baby Mollie's formula?

Trust and obey, for there's no other way. At that moment, literally no other way to keep from using my tongue to exact revenge on four unsuspecting girls. Trust and obey. Something tells me this venture will take an enormous amount of trusting, obeying, and singing.

Sticky Business

I have to take a minute to laugh at myself. Everyone tells you to just let the housework go after you have a baby. I realized this weekend that if you have the energy to make the mess I made, you need to find the energy to mop!

This weekend's project was a bit of a debacle... Marmalade.

At Christmas, I received all the works for canning from my totally awesome MIL (I'm not kissing up - she's awesome! She lived with us for 2 weeks after my C-section). Don't know what got into me, but I decided I needed to make marmalade out of all the delicious citrus available.

Off to the Ball Blue Book (which I always want to call the "blue ball" book, giggle). 

The canning went beautifully. It was simple and easy and clean. The jelly making, however, was a disaster thanks to my over-ambitious dive into canning. 

What I learned:

1.) If you're going to can for the first time, try something easy like applesauce or cold-packed peaches in fruit juice, not marmalade! Canning is pleasant, but there is some learning curve.

2.) Pectin is really hard to find, at least in February. DH finally found some in Richmond. Then he could only find the powdered variety. Which leads to my next lesson...

3.) Powdered and liquid pectin take vastly different quantities. Oops. I literally have to carve my first batch because I added too much pectin. It's about as spreadable as a Jello Jiggler.

For the second batch, I chose a recipe that didn't require pectin. I learned my fourth and most important lesson.

4.) Boiling sugar water to the "gelling point" is a lot like the Iraq War. First, I naively thought it would be quick. As it dragged on and on, I kept telling myself that I was making progress, and it would be finished any minute now. When I felt like I'd spent too much time on the endeavor, I gave up and removed it from the heat. The result: you'd better hold the bread exactly level otherwise the marmalade rolls right off. Don't know what that says about Iraq...

Holding a roll perfectly level :)